


we happy few

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pilot!Eggsy, Royal Air Force, Spy!harry, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: Many a duff gen circulated about his infrequent presence among the men. He’d been seen talking with the COs and yet appeared to hold no distinct rank. No one knew where he came from or questioned his presence, but he was afforded the respect and obedience of any Old Man. Digs thinks he’s one of Churchill’s spies.But Eggsy just knows him as Harry Hart, the well-dressed gentleman with wide charm and eyes that warmed him better than any of the plonk Rufus stashed in his pit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsakatiebird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=itsakatiebird).



> For [itsakatiebird](http://itsakatiebird.tumblr.com) on tumblr, who requested a fic based off [these two glorious pieces of art](http://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/post/153280179975/aiwa-sensei-30-day-au-challenge-13) by aiwa-sensei.
> 
> There was, uh, only very cursory research done for this due to lack of time, so I apologize in advance for what are probably many inaccuracies and anachronisms. Shhhh, focus on the dicks. >.>

“Well, look who it is,” Ryan says, gaze slipping past Eggsy to the shadowy nether regions of the pub. “Your mystery penguin, Eggs.”

Like a well-trained beehive, they conspicuously turn their heads in unison. Hard to see him at first; the pub’s fit to bursting with the mob, many of whom are shot up at the advanced hour, loud and jolly, whilst creating copious thick plumes of fag smoke that turn the air murky. _Just making a bit of London Fog for the Gerries tomorrow_ , Jamal had joked.

But there, just when Hugo leans forward to get an eyeful of some brama’s thrupney bits, Eggsy sees him: his tall, slim profile and posh togs, holding himself in manner so different to everyone else and yet remaining seamlessly a part of it anyhow, as understated and noble as the gleaming polished wood that lined the bar.

Many a duff gen circulated about his infrequent presence among the men. He’d been seen talking with the COs and yet appeared to hold no distinct rank. No one knew where he came from or questioned his presence, but he was afforded the respect and obedience of any Old Man. Digs thinks he’s one of Churchill’s spies.

But Eggsy just knows him as Harry Hart, the well-dressed gentleman with wide charm and eyes that warmed him better than any of the plonk Rufus stashed in his pit.

As if Harry could divine his thoughts, he turns his head and their eyes meet, and a lifetime of conversation is held in mere moments.

Then Harry tips his head ever so slightly without making it seem like he’s moved at all before Eggsy’s sight lines are suddenly blocked by a tide of bods angling for another round. When the crowd clears up, Harry’s vanished.

“Scuse me, lads,” Eggsy says as he drains the last of his pint and pushes off the table to jeers and hollers, squeezing through the densely packed crowd to slip out the back door.

The air’s got a bite to it when he emerges out into an empty, piss-scented alley, instantly siphoning off the sheen of sweat from his brow and stripping him to the bone. Eggsy hunches his shoulders and instinctively glances both ways before he catches sight of him again.

Harry leans against the wall with casual elegance like he has nowhere else to be. He certainly doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Eggsy. “Congratulations on your recent promotion, Sergeant Unwin.”

“Yea, ta, guv.” Eggsy can’t help but preen a little, not only because he knows the promotion was well-earned and a long time coming after MTO and Britain, but because Harry, a man who probably had intel streaming in and out of his hands on a daily basis like a swiftly gushing river, has gone out of his way to capture and remember something about him.

“You’re heading out to the France tomorrow, I take it?” Harry asks, even though he likely already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Eggsy confirms anyway. “Screentime’s over. Once more into the breach and all that. Nice that the squaddies gonna join us this time, you know, after we gone done all the work.”

Harry pins him to the spot with his ever assessing gaze, missing nothing. It never fails to lay Eggsy bare. “Sometimes I wonder which you enjoy more, the flying or the fight.”

“Bit of both, maybe.” Eggsy shrugs, but can’t deny the observation. The first time he went up in the air, it had been quite literally seeing the world in a whole new light. For most of his life, he’d felt himself to be so small, but looking down at the quilt of farms that blanketed the English countryside, he had his first taste of what it meant to be a titan. “At first, I liked being the underdog, I suppose.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Eggsy allows a slightly more smug smile to touch his lips. “It’s nice to be winning too.”

“It’s not over yet,” Harry points out, sliding his oxfords across the rain-slick pavement, closing the space between them by degrees, and forcing Eggsy to look up and inhale the light scent of rain and pub smoke that clings to him. “You know what they say about cornered animals?”

“Only one animal I see here,” Eggsy dares, lids falling half mast to sneak a glimpse at the bright flash and spark within Harry’s gaze, leaving a simmering heat in its wake. Since enlisting, Eggsy’s accumulated a pretty collection of vices, drinking, swearing, smoking, but none hold a candle to this.

Harry slips a bold hand round his waist to draw him in and Eggsy goes willingly, slipping an arm around Harry’s neck and opening his mouth, feeling Harry’s lips slide over his, a hot tongue sweeping in to claim, leaving lingering traces of expensive smoky scotch stinging along Eggsy’s gums. It ignites a low flame of arousal in his groin whose heat quietly spreads throughout his body. Playing with fire indeed.

He kisses like a victor and Eggsy can’t find it within himself to complain, not when Harry willingly sinks to his knees for him, unbothered by the cold and damp that must be soaking into his trousers. Harry goes for his belt and clasps, nimbly freeing Eggsy’s half hard prick from its tight confines and only exposing it to the chill for a second before he takes him into his mouth to coax him into full stiffness.

Then it’s hot, wet, silky heat and intensely pleasurable suction, a rough tongue continuously running up the underside of his cock and circling the leaking head before Harry sinks his whole mouth down to the root, exhaling a hot puff of air into his coarse nest of curls, and then pulling back to do it all again and again, relentlessly, with the concentrated focus of single-minded intent.

“Oh fuck, fucking hell, Harry. Your mouth, your…” Eggsy can’t help the groans from bubbling up in his throat, falling against the side of the building for support, hands tangling themselves in Harry’s neatly combed hair, trying not to thrust too hard, but increasingly losing control over his higher thoughts. He wants to make it last, wants to savour it, wants to know every ridge that lines the inside of Harry’s mouth, but knows they can’t.

Time, the law, society at large. None of it is on their side.

So he lets the pleasure rise up and wash over him in waves, chases his brimming climax, and only has time to tug at Harry’s hair in warning before spurting into his mouth with a stuttered moan, choking with so much want and desire when he watches Harry just keep swallowing him down, not a drop to be spilt.

Harry finishes him off with a slurp and one last dainty swipe to the tip of his cleaned cock that makes Eggsy shiver before courteously putting his clobber to rights. When Harry rises back to his feet, the rigid bulge in his trousers ruins the sleek lines of his suit.

Eggsy swallows, trying to wet his dry throat. “Shall I…?” He waves a hand at it, aching to touch, wanting to see Harry come undone for once.

“Best not,” Harry tells him, though Eggsy can detect the notes of regret in his tone. “I’m afraid closing time’s fast approaching, and I’d hate to risk the possibility of soiling this finely pressed uniform.” He trails a long finger down Eggsy’s lapel. “It does make you look ever so handsome.”

Amidst all the warmth that still suffuses his body, Eggsy can feel his cheeks heat up further. Once upon a time when Eggsy had to queue up each day to look for menial work in order to support his mum and sister, Harry had first introduced himself to Eggsy by stating he had known Eggsy’s father in the Great War and that he owed Lee a significant debt for saving Harry’s life at the cost of his own, to be automatically transferred to his son.

When Eggsy got his call-up papers, Harry offered to have the conscription commuted and find a place for Eggsy among the docks or railways instead, but Eggsy had declined.

 _I want to join, Harry_ , Eggsy had insisted. _It’s my duty, innit?_

Harry had taken it poorly. His placid demeanour had been thoroughly rattled as he glared at Eggsy furiously, his voice shaking with barely restrained anger.

_How can I protect you when you so insist upon putting yourself on the front lines of danger, you bloody foolish boy?_

Eggsy doesn’t know why he thinks about that moment now as the urgency of their coupling dissipates and he finds the ensuing emptiness to be numbingly hollow, and lining it, a kind of terrifying darkness. Something unnamed and heavy takes up residence in his chest. “You gonna go over too, aren’t you? Doing whatever it is you do.”

Harry never definitively confirms or denies anything, but from the look in his eyes, Eggsy knows his suspicions are bang on, and the implications of that make his stomach feel like he’s being plunged into a spinning nosedive.

The skies over Europe have largely been cleared of danger. On the ground is a different story altogether.

Somewhere back in the pub, the crowd’s begun a spontaneous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” on account of those heading out on the morrow, the sentimental clots. There must be a surprising number of Scotsmen in the crowd, bending the shape of the lyrics into melodious melancholy sounds than distinct words.

Instead of saying goodbye like a proper gentleman, Harry runs a hand over Eggsy’s eyes to close them, then swipes his thumb across his lips before pressing a final kiss to them, soft and heartbreakingly tender. “Good hunting, Eggsy.”

When Eggsy opens his eyes, his mysterious Harry Hart is gone.

 

_____

 

During the Battle of Britain, Eggsy flew his trusty Spitfire. It’d been a capricious old girl, but had served him well, helping him gain his ace status. Even still, it was doomed to be hopelessly outclassed in just a few short years, eventually taking too much damage in Italy and deemed u/s.

Now he flies a Mustang and meets the Luftwaffe head for head at angels 15, at least until he takes heavy flak on his port side during a night raid over the south of France.

With his kite about to go up in flames, Eggsy makes the snap decision to bail out, launching his body from the pulpit and flinging himself into the dark. His thoughts streamline into a single prayer: that the flaming shrapnel and blazing firepower still streaking brilliantly across the night sky won’t tear his umbrella to tatters and send him anchoring to the earth below.

 

_____

 

They catch him somewhere in the countryside just as the sun is beginning to crest over the swell of hills. Eggsy’s German is practically non-existent but he recognises _Durchgangslager der Luftwaffe_ and certainly understands the angry end of several rifles well enough.

He raises his hands in surrender and lets them divest him of his sidearm and dagger, marching him back to some rural farm they must have taken over. He gets belted across the head a few times before they tie his wrists too tightly together to a post in the dilapidated barn out back.

The hours creep by, the day lightening and warming, thickening the smell of manure and hay for a few sweltering hours, before plummeting back into the breath-stealing chill of night. He’s given water, a stale bread roll, and allowed to piss in the corner twice before he’s tied back up and left to shiver for another day and night.

Then the interrogation begins in halting, heavily accented English.

“When do the Allies invade?” the German Storm Leader asks.

Eggsy didn't know the answer even if he wanted to tell them, so he lifts his head and spits on the dirt at his interrogator’s feet. “Up yours.”

 

_____

 

It goes on like this, questioning, blows dealt via fist or butt of a rifle, then no food, no more being let loose for piss breaks, the minimum amount of water, the ever taxing cold nights.

“We have a long time to wait before transport arrives. It is too dangerous with your raids. Your friends work against you,” the Storm Leader tells him one day about four days in. “Do you not want more comfort for yourself? We will give you a bed and warm food. You can wash yourself.”

Eggsy’s tired, aching, starving. He’s long since soiled himself, and his throat feels scratchy from dehydration. “I can do this all day.”

The man’s face turns sour with a sneer as he stands up and unholsters his revolver, aiming it at Eggsy. “Regretfully, we do not have all day. I will make things easier for us: tell me what I want to know or I will shoot you in the head right now and bury you in this barn. No one will ever know you were here. Is that what you want?”

His focus is drawn like a magnet down the barrel of the gun. Eggsy always thought he’d go out burning up in the sky, not quite like this.

“Guess you’re gonna have to shoot me, chum, ‘cos I ain’t telling you nothing. But I know you and yours is your last legs, innit? No more fuel. Your Luftwaffe’s all but a joke now. And I know this: my side’s coming for you and there’ll be nowhere left for you to hide.”

His soon-to-be executioner clenches his jaw and draws back the hammer on his pistol.

Eggsy thinks about his poor mum, how gutted she’d be to get that telegram, the fourth man in her life lost through wars.

Of the always joyful face of his baby sister, how she’ll have to grow up remembering nothing of her big brother save for a few scant photographs his mum managed to hide from his bastard stepfather.

Of Harry and his faintly amused smiles that hardly seemed to curve his lips, of his transparently fond gaze, the searing touch of his clever hands, and rapture of his sinful, silver-tongued mouth.

Eggsy closes his eyes. He would rather hold that image in his head as the last thing he sees.

A crack of a gun goes off, but it takes a few seconds for Eggsy to realise he’s still breathing. When the gunshots keep happening, he opens his eyes to Harry fighting with the rest of Germans.

Single-handedly.

With just his fists and an umbrella, a civvie one.

(Or maybe not, Eggsy amends, as he watches something being shot from the end of it).

Several bodies litter the ground with neat smoking bullet holes in the centre of their foreheads, too many for an average gun, and Harry efficiently adds to the count, skewering the end of his umbrella into the throat of one soldier even as he rips it out to jab the handle up into the nose of another.

When some of them gather their wits and start firing their rifles, Harry simply opens the umbrella and ducks behind it as the bullets bounce harmlessly off the convex surface, some even rebounding as inadvertent friendly fire.

Harry plays a lethal, graceful dance across the old barn, part ballet, part swordsmanship, part sheer brawling, and he's the deadliest, most fearsome weapon Eggsy has ever seen in action, until the air is quiet and still and dry particles of dust and hay are floating lazily within the late afternoon light.

Harry turns to him, hair limp with sweat and shaken free from its styling, perfect suit dishevelled and pockmarked with smashed bullets, and the first ruddy thing he does is primly adjust the cuffs of his sleeves.

Eggsy can’t help it.

He laughs.

 

_____

 

It’s too late to set off for anywhere, so they spend the night in the little farmhouse that’s now free of its previous occupants. Eggsy doesn’t know what poor family had lived here before, but he sees the ghosts of their lives in the photographs that still hang on the walls and a tattered doll sitting atop a small child’s bed in one of the bedrooms.

In the dim glow of the lamps, Harry treats the minor cuts, burns, and bruises scattered across Eggsy's body, a collection of injuries from the wreckage of his plane and his interrogation. Hands that had so skillfully killed not hours ago now tend to him in the most gentle manner, dabbing at the bleeding gash on his lip with a wet flannel, rubbing a warming cream into the contusions across his ribs, helping him to wash away the dirt and grime of the past several days.

Eggsy can’t tear his eyes from Harry’s face. “You saved me. How did you know where to find me?”

“I have my ways,” Harry says in that infuriatingly vague manner he has. He smiles a little when he sees the scowl on Eggsy’s face. “I found the wreckage from your plane, and when I didn’t find a body, I determined you must have conducted an emergency evacuation landing. Once I located your chute, I employed basic tracking skills to retrace your steps to where you must have been captured. From there, it was simply a matter of deduction to locate your probable whereabouts.”

Right. Real easy, that. “How did you know there would be anything left to find?”

“I didn’t,” Harry admits. When his gaze meets Eggsy’s, there’s a haunted quality to it. “I could only hope.”

“Were you always keeping watch over me?”

Harry looks away under the guise of cleaning up. “I made a promise.”

“To my dad?”

“No,” Harry says, looking back at him, eyes dark, glinting. “To myself. To keep you safe. To make sure you came out of this alive.”

“Because of the debt you owe to my dad,” Eggsy concludes, feeling...he doesn’t know what. Disappointed, maybe.

But Harry’s shaking his head again. “No. Because I….”

Eggsy looks at him, heart pounding in his chest, skin heating up. “Harry.”

It takes a long time for Harry to say it, voice thick, unsteady. “Because this isn’t a world I want to live in and fight for if you’re not in it, Eggsy.”

That night, Eggsy asks Harry to fuck him, because the boundaries between right and wrong feel less solid here. Because he doesn’t know what will happen to them tomorrow or, if they’re lucky, however many days they’ll have after that.

So he lies on his back in the rickety old bed with the thin mattress, shaking lightly, but draws up his legs and grips the back of his knees, holding himself open as Harry unabashedly lets his gaze rake over him.

Harry uses one of the creams from the med kit he’d brought with him, penetrating Eggsy with two fingers. It’s a strange sensation, almost uncomfortable, too full, but then Harry just continues to stroke his insides, curling his fingers up into him in a way that blazes achingly good, repeating the action until Eggsy is writhing, stretching him open, loose and wanting.

“Come on,” Eggsy hisses through his teeth, trying to clench down on those teasing fingers, driven to relinquish a grip on one knee to take hold of his leaking prick and give it a few strokes. “Oh god. Please.”

He watches Harry withdraw his fingers and then move to slick his cock in more of the cream, gets to finally see all that’s beneath Harry’s nice suits, every lean sculpted muscle and battle scar patchworked into his skin, and can’t help what slips out. “I don’t wanna live without you either, Harry.”

Harry splays his knees between Eggsy’s legs, pressing them up against the soft swells of his bottom and tipping Eggsy’s hips further up. He takes hold of one of Eggsy’s legs from him and pushes it even further back into Eggsy's chest, using his other hand to brush the moist head of his cock across Eggsy’s hole.

“Are you sure?” There’s ruin in his voice, barely kept in check, and still he’d back off if Eggsy changed his mind.

“Yeah. I want you in me. I want this.”

Eggsy’s mouth falls open when he feels a blunt pressure insistently sinking in past the suddenly resistant ring of muscle, burning, peeling him open. “Oh.”

Now that he’s partially breached, Harry pauses, running a soothing hand down Eggsy’s flank that’s at odds with the smouldering in his eyes. “Are you alright? Want to stop?”

“No,” Eggsy grits out, taking and and exhaling another quivering breath. “Keep going. Just— _ah_.”

Harry keeps pressing forward, his prick sinking into Eggsy by degrees, but it's unceasing, a slow filling up and splitting. “Relax. _Breathe._ Just relax,” Harry whispers as a calming score to the overwhelming sense of being splayed out and penetrated, until Eggsy can feel Harry's hip bones brushing across the backs of his thighs, the warm silky slip of Harry's bollocks against his arse.

He’s so full, feels so hopelessly vulnerable, that tears silently slip from the corners of his eyes before he hastily turns his head to wipe them away on the rough sheets beneath him.

“Eggsy, look at me.”

And Eggsy does so helplessly.

Harry holds his gaze, and it’s like he’s holding him, safe, enveloped, secure.

And then Harry draws his hips back, and the drag of his cock sliding out sparks a moan from Eggsy’s lips. Harry gives him little time to process it: he thrusts forward, shoves all the air from Eggsy's lungs, pulls back, and again, again, again, driving Eggsy into a pure sensory stupour.

The bed creaks beneath their rocking. The slick slapping sounds of sliding flesh are almost obscene in the otherwise silence. Harry’s breaths fall heavy and quick. Eggsy transitions between animal panting and then groaning and then cursing, grinding the back of his head against the cushions, too overcome.

Eggsy’s hand finds his cock again with him realising it, wanking furiously to Harry’s furious thrusts, feeling like he’s becoming too big for his skin, something expanding within him until it cracks open, flooding his body, white blinding his vision as he comes all over his stomach and chest.

When he regains his clarity, his chest is heaving with the air he gulps down, his heart is still drumming in his ears, and his blood is pulsing in his veins. He’s aware of Harry inside him, hard, trembling, holding himself still against Eggys’s climax-induced bucking.

“Alright?” Harry asks, like he hasn’t been skating the painful edge so patiently.

“God, Harry,” he croaks, feeling wrung out. Come is cooling and growing tacky on his belly. His thighs are starting to burn, his hips ache, but he sits up onto his elbows anyway to get a full view of what’s happening between his legs. “Come on. I wanna watch.” And when Harry doesn’t move, as if he's still unsure, Eggsy clenches around his cock until it hurts, reminding himself of its foreign shape and presence.

It doesn’t take anything more than that, as Harry sets to fucking him in earnest, and Eggsy gets to watch his cock pistoning in and out of his arse, rapidfire, the rim clinging to Harry’s cock with each pull outwards. It’s starting to edge into the wrong side of oversensitive, but Eggsy could never tell Harry to stop, not when sweat shines on Harry’s chest and his hair sways with the movement of his body and Eggsy gets to witness the slow, gradual process of the most put together man he’s ever known flying apart at the seams. Harry’s thrusts grow erratic, more forceful, until he tenses, coming long and hard inside him, his fingers tighten around Eggsy’s still pinned knee in a crushing, sweaty grip that will surely leave bruises later.

They clean up the best they can, though Eggsy hisses even when Harry uses only the lightest of touches to wipe out the leaking come from his arse. He’s so sore, he has to lie on his side, but sighs and relaxes when Harry slides up behind him, slipping a long leg between his thighs and an arm around his waist to hold him close, palm resting over his heart.

 

_____

 

It takes almost another week to get to safe territory, avoiding patrols and their own Allied bombings. But they make it. Eggsy never thought he’d be so happy to see a medical cot in his life, and he practically falls into it, immediately tumbling into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up the next morning only to learn that Harry had left in the night without saying goodbye.

 

_____

 

He doesn’t see Harry again. Nor does he know where Harry’s gone.

He hears more gen, though, here and there, of other regiments who’ve run into a curious but polite gentleman in a posh suit amongst their ranks. As to what he was doing, they couldn’t say.

Eggsy learns that Harry’s last sighting had been near the Ardennes.

The name brands itself in his mind because only a few days later, it’s where the Germans launch their next offence, taking the AF completely and devastatingly by surprise.

 

_____

 

He gets promoted to Flight Sergeant and flies a Thunderbolt in the counteroffencive, bombing German troops and their dwindling supply lines. In contrast to the ground, it’s almost peaceful in the air, a whole other world away. Within that silent serenity, Eggsy sometimes finds himself wondering if somewhere in the ruined world below, Harry’s body is there, lying anonymously amongst a sea of so many other bodies, later to be thrown into one of the mass graves, unknown and doomed to be forgotten by most of the world.

It isn’t that Eggsy hasn’t lost friends and family before. He’s practically an old hat at it now. The worst part, the one that threatens to bring him to his knees with the injustice of it all, is that he’ll never know.

For so long, Harry has flickered in and out of his life like a shadow amidst a sputtering candle, fading into the indistinguishable dark when the flame finally went out.

In April, the Red Army finally takes Berlin.

In early May, the Germans surrender.

 

_____

 

VE Day is less spirited in so recently war-torn Germany than elsewhere around the world, but the Allies’s base is awash in relief-fuelled celebration with newspapers bearing large headlines of victory and Hitler’s defeat being waved as proudly as the various Allied flags.

The Soviets bring out their vodka stores and someone’s cut up numerous Nazi flags into scraps tossing them around the base like red confetti where the winds catch them in funnels and keep them swirling in torrents through the air.

Eggsy tries to keep up his smiles, which isn’t always so difficult what with Jamal hanging an arm off his neck, whooping and hollering with the best of them because he’s absolutely shot to ribbons.

Finally, he manages to hand Jamal off to an exasperated Ryan and finds some solace behind his bus a bit aways from the main festivities where he can collect his tumultuous emotions and get a better hold of himself.

He even almost manages it when, with a start, he feels that familiar heavy gaze on his back.

It’s painful, not wanting to turn around, not wanting to dare hope, but his heart starts racing anyway and his skin prickles with heat. At last, Eggsy gives in.

Harry’s there to catch him when his knees suddenly give way and all Eggsy can do is hold onto him, fingers digging into his suit as if fearing he were an apparition all along. “Harry.” It’s all he can say before his voice fails him and all that emerges next is something horrifying close to a sob.

“Well done, Flight Sergeant Unwin,” Harry whispers, smiling at Eggsy proudly.

“And to you, Mr Hart, for all your unacknowledged and unspoken contributions to the war effort, I’m sure,” Eggsy says, arching a brow. “Will you ever tell me about them?”

“Perhaps one day,” Harry says, voice lilting back to noncommittal vagaries again.

But that’s not good enough anymore, not when Eggsy has Harry in his arms, solid, real. He doesn’t ever want to lose that again. “When?” he presses, leaving no room for Harry to wriggle off the hook this time.

Harry sees it for what it is, maybe more so that what Eggsy sees it as: an ultimatum of sorts. He lifts a hand and smooths back Eggsy’s hair, cupping the back of his head. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re willing to accept my job offer.”

Eggsy’s brows furrow. “What?”

“We can talk about it some other time,” Harry says. “I know you won’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” Eggsy sternly vows, trying to maintain some semblance of frustration, but he can’t seem to hold onto his anger for long, not when Harry is looking at him so softly, like everything he does is something beautiful.

It makes Harry smile though, which, in turn, further melts his resolve, and soon they are two berks smiling at each other.

“I’m counting on it, my darling,” he says before Eggsy finds himself being literally swept off his feet and dipped into an all-consuming kiss.


End file.
